


The Art of Immolation

by Spudato



Series: Carnage AU [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Carnage AU, Multi, Other, Pre-Apocalypse, White Fang AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2020-05-16 12:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19317859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spudato/pseuds/Spudato
Summary: Embedded in the ranks of the White Fang, Blake and Velvet are working as a pair of Vale's most destructive arsonists in the fight to free themselves from the grip of Atlesian control and the ruling classes of the elite. Yet, their scorched earth attracts the attention of the worst kind of trouble: the infamous - and ambitious - Cinder Fall. With the world of the verge of toppling into chaos as keen eyes look to strike at vulnerable throats, all Blake and Velvet have left to do is to alight the final match that will reduce everything to ashes... and create a way for Cinder to reach the pinnacle of power she's only dreamt of.A pre-apocalypse, dystopian AU where sometimes, starting anew is the only way forwards.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Blake is AGENDER and uses THEY/THEM pronouns. Velvet is GENDERWILD and uses SHE/THEY pronouns.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometime after the world ends, a journalist -- young, clever, but perhaps a little too dangerously brazen -- asks to interview one of the people who burnt Remnant down to a husk. Blake doesn't think she'll like the truth she gets, but it's the only truth she'll get from them.

 

 _funerals were held all over the city_  
_the youth bleed in the square_  
_and women raged as old men fumbled and cried_  
_we're sorry, we thought you didn't care, oh_  
_and how does it feel now you've scratched that itch?_  
_(how does it feel?)_  
_pulled out all your stitches_  
_[hubris is a bitch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6GX0Zf4FMI)_

 

* * *

 

“So,” she begins, her chair squeaking as she settles herself down at the opposite end of the dining table. There’s papers spread out ready, cuttings from newspapers clipped together and printouts from websites now defunct stacked high, and even though this is meant to be an interview the way the low-hanging chandelier above is the only light in the room makes this feel far more like some interrogation, the sharp, angled metal a harsh and modern styling, a knife’s edge that sits not far from the tips of Blake’s ears. It’s also maybe because this journalist, despite Blake reckoning she can’t be much past twenty, has a sort of steel in her eyes of someone who won’t easily be intimidated, can’t be cowed into silence. It’s admirable in its own way; after all that’s happened, most people are just happy to still be alive, willing to stay quiet and out of sight in the wake of rebuilding efforts, but there’s still a few lingering about who have enough backbone to stand up and ask for the truth. It’s pretty much the entire reason Blake’s been willing to entertain her, for now. “Shall we start at the beginning, or?”

Through the table echoes a _tap-tap-tap,_ and Blake glances down to her hands, a nervousness -- or an eagerness -- betrayed in how the journalist can’t quite keep herself still, a finger tapping against a glossy photo. Blake recognises the picture, namely because it’s one of their own visage; bright yellow eyes stare out from the ink, mouth drawn into a solid line, thick brows furrowed with frustration. It’s not an old picture by any means, but these days it’s starting to feel like a lifetime ago.

The tapping pauses, and when Blake looks up they realise they’ve matched the photo for expression, lips drawing down into a scowl. It’s just because they’re half-caught in an old memory, but it’s probably been misinterpreted as irritation, so Blake relaxes, lets their face settle into a mask of neutrality. “Where else would we start?”

The journalist shrugs loosely, drawing her hands back to settle them on her lap. “You can start wherever you like, really. If it’s easier for you to square away the clearer moments then we can start with those, but if you have an event in mind that kicked this all off, then I’m all ears.”

Blake blinks, thinks about it for a moment, and when they reach into the pocket of their hoodie they’re not blind to how the journalist slightly tenses, pale blue eyes darting down, alert. She’s not stupid enough to have entirely dropped her guard here, but that’s not any surprise when Blake eyes the spiralling goat horns that frame her face. Every Faunus in Vale -- in Remnant, really -- knows the price of being caught unawares, and this girl’s no exception, only letting out a breath once Blake reveals a packet of cigarettes. Still, the tension doesn’t completely dissipate, and it’s only once Blake’s fished out a lighter too that they figure out why her gaze keeps lingering on the pack, her fingers beginning to tap once more.

In the aftermath of the end of the world, it’s probably hard to find cigarettes around. “You want one?”

The offer makes her jolt back into awareness, breaking herself from a stupor, and when Blake tilts their head to one side she registers the question in full, offering a half-smile as she waves them away. “Oh, no, no, I don’t-- I used to, but I’m, um, quitting. It’ll be too much of a distraction with all the work I’m doing.”

If she’s intent on finding the truth of what happened, then that’ll take her a lifetime, but Blake respects the commitment. They take a cigarette out between their teeth and stuff the pack away, knocking their lighter against the table to try and shake the Dust crystal within aglow. It’s been dimming more and more every day, and Blake gives it less than a week before it dies for good. “That’s fair, but you’re gonna be sat there a while if you want the whole story, though. Offer’s always open.”

The journalist smiles politely, but once Blake manages to get the cigarette lit, their first exhale letting free a plume of hazy smoke that loops and twists and hangs overhead, her smile withers and dies away. Blake think she’ll cave -- not now, maybe, but later on -- and their next drag is held deep in their lungs, mulling over where to begin.

Well, actually, the truth is there’s no question about it. It sticks out in their mind, beacon bright, and Blake knows that almost everything that’s happened since -- to them, to the world -- traces back to it. It’s hard to say that, though, so Blake exhales, watches the smoke swirl about the chandelier, and then they begin to talk.

“Maybe a little over a year ago,” they start, and the journalist almost jumps in her seat, grabbing for a small notebook and pen before she flips through the pages to a crisp, blank sheet. There’s already countless scribbles made -- names, places, numbers -- and Blake finds it funny that they’re even allowing someone to record their words forever. For years, anything they’d penned had to be burnt to ashes for safekeeping, so giving away their story for a stranger to write down, to read over and over, is a strange feeling. “I had a backpack full of bricks and bombs, a molotov in my hand, and a target who lived in the Upper Quarter. You probably knew him, maybe. Does _Councillor Pasque_ ring any bells?”

The journalist glances up, pen stilling. Her gaze is steady, and Blake can tell she’s searching for a lie. There isn’t one, though, and so she relents, looks back down. “It does, yeah.”

Blake nods as they slide an ashtray closer, flicking the ashes in. “Most of our kind knew him around here. I’m sure you remember why.”

She doesn’t say anything, though it’s enough confirmation in Blake’s eyes, and their next words come out tinged with smoke and the tang of tobacco, a smile curling their lips. “So, yeah, my partner and I were the ones who burnt his fucking house down.”

 


	2. The Start Of It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> None of tonight is new to Blake, not really. It's just that this one feels different. Maybe it's something in the air, or a feeling up their spine, that tells them that this is the night they'll be reborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blake is AGENDER and uses THEY/THEM pronouns. Velvet is GENDERWILD and uses SHE/THEY pronouns.

The house burns beautifully at this time of night.

Judging from the last time they’d bothered to check their Scroll, it’s maybe a little past two in the morning, and so the night sky overhead is pitch dark and far from the hopeful tint of daylight, stars like specks of dust littered into groups of distant constellations and the forms of faraway galaxies. On a clear night like this one, the view can be so spectacular that it’ll take your breath away.

Or, at least, it _would_ have been had a rising column of yellow-hued smoke not obscured them entirely, thick plumes ever shifting like a river’s flow as they ascend unto the heavens. It’s tall enough that it can probably be seen from each corner of the city, a rising ghost on the far horizon, and it’ll be no surprise to Blake if, in the morning, there are photos from the other end of Vale showing its growth when the fire below burns so hotly, so ferociously, that’s it’s hard to even look at. When they glance away, checking they’re still alone on the street, the world seems shadowy and barren, eyes taking so long to adjust that it’s as if the inferno is the only thing in the middle of the universe, a young and new-born star that Blake has crafted with their own two hands, as though they hold the power to make anything, everything, with a click of their fingers or a crack of their knuckles. They’re a headstrong god with nothing to lose. They have all the time that they want.

Before tonight, this three-storey house -- this _manor_ \-- was the nicest home in the neighbourhood, but now chalky white brick is seared and scorched, whilst wooden trellises, upon which rare and gorgeous flowers had been carefully cultivated, curl and blacken and collapse in on themselves in heaps of ash and charcoal. Smoke belches from brick-smashed windows as the flames climb higher and higher, and even from where Blake is stood on the road outside, the tarmac warm under thick-soled boots, they can hear the building start to creak and groan in its death throes.

They’ve captured some of their work on camera, a memento of the occasion, even if the playback is never as good as standing here in person. A video can’t express the smell of burnt Dust and fuel and acrid ash in the air, nor the way sweat prickles uncomfortably under the dark layers of their clothes, eyes squinting out behind the narrow slits of their bone-white mask. Every act of arson plays out a little differently, Blake knows from experience, but this one is different to the countless others they’ve done before. This one feels powerful, feels like a declaration of war, and they know they’ll never forget this place, this moment, this feeling. It’s only fitting for the magnitude of their target, after all; Councillor Pasque’s deserved this for quite some time, and he should’ve known retribution was inevitable, fiery and all-consuming.

From somewhere above Blake’s head comes a _crack_ like an unclean snap of bone, and where she’s kneeled down on the paving near the shattered remains of the front door, Velvet glances upward, a can of white aerosol paint pausing its persistent hissing just in time for part of the roof to collapse inwards. The flames that replace it now reach, unobstructed, for the midnight sky above as another cloud of smoke blooms upwards, and in Blake’s eyes they look like the grasping fingers of some summoned, ancient entity, here to bring its wrath down onto the world below.

Velvet’s awe is more audible than Blake’s, her appreciative whistle piercing the air as it echoes around, and when she glances over to Blake she’s got a lopsided grin of excitement, the brown eyes behind her mask flashing orange as they catch the moonlight.

“Think this’ll get our message across, partner?”

Blake’s smile is hidden behind the thin layer of their black bandana, and their ears flick about as they cross the road to take a look, hunting for any strange voices, any distant wails of sirens coming close. They don’t need to, not really; they’ve been here long enough that any help that’s going to arrive would have been here by now, but there’s always a chance that one of Pasque’s equally filthy rich, equally apathetic neighbours has finally bothered to give a fuck about his misfortune. Not that it matters, of course, because in ten minutes all that’ll be left of them here is the fire they’ve left behind and the slogans Velvet’s slashed across the ground.

**_HUMAN RICHES LEAVE US STARVING. FAUNUS LABOUR IS STOLEN LABOUR._ **

Each word has been carefully painted in a bold and jagged script, Velvet ensuring it can’t be misread, misunderstood, the meaning unmistakable and the perpetrator clear. The messages aren’t really innovative, aren’t anything _new,_ but that’s the point; as soon as the police arrive to the scene, this crime -- like the many hundreds of arsons before it -- will be attributed to the faceless terror that is the White Fang. It won’t be an unexpected attack, not really, which makes it all the funnier that nobody was left to defend his home. After Pasque had dared to spit upon the Fang, upon the _Faunus,_ calling them drains upon _civilised society_ whilst also relying on their underpaid labour to fund his own interests… well, Blake reckons this is a rightful retaliation. He should’ve have felt the shadow of the guillotine cast over him long before he foolishly spoke out.

They’d done him but the single favour, at least, of waiting until he and his family were out of town; their lives will be spared, but they’ll be left with little more than a suitcase of belongings each, and Blake thinks it might teach them a bit of humility. They’d seen the sheer wealth and opulence displayed in his home as Velvet had broken in to lay her bombs down, golden ornaments and marbled busts displayed in glass cases, and it leaves a bitter tang on Blake’s tongue to even remember it, metallic and bloody. All of it will be gone, now, or left unsalvageable, and it soothes their restless bones, the itch under their skin. It’s all they can do, for now -- murder isn’t particularly their forte, far more familiar with the catching of flame to tinder and the quake of a bomb than the tearing of flesh and the splatter of blood, but it suits them both just fine. Death’s too quick for some of the targets they have, but burning down what they love makes it hurt, makes a statement, makes it _last._

Exhaling a long breath, Blake looks over the slogans again, and they nod as they tug their bandana down so that their words aren’t muffled into inaudibility. “Yeah, I reckon so. Besides, the moment he hears about his house going up in smoke, he’ll know exactly why.”

Velvet just laughs, shaking the can with a rattle before she starts to loosely sketch out the shape of the Fang’s emblem. Three thick, blood-red stripes are overlaid with a white wolf’s head, teeth bared in a snarl, and if the slogans weren’t already obvious enough then this most assuredly is.

Yet, despite the fact that White Fang symbolism is everywhere here, Blake feels strangely removed from the whole tonight. Both of them have stood under the Fang’s banner for years now, have shouted their manifesto in the streets and marched as soldiers under their leadership, and they know that neither of them will be credited with this arson save for the only person who they take orders from. They’re both cogs in a greater machine and Blake knows this, has drilled it deep into their marrow, but this act of arson feels bigger than the Fang somehow. This, they privately think, is something for Blake and Velvet alone.

“Honestly,” Velvet murmurs, dislodging Blake from their thoughts. “Guy’s such a fuckin’ idiot. Thought he was so above it all that he didn’t even bother to pay guards to look after his fuckin’ house after the shit he pulled. Cocky little asshole.”

There’s maybe a story to be told here -- perhaps something about false prophets, standing on pillars of salt and sand -- but instead Blake just hums in agreement, Velvet’s thoughts matching theirs, and they offer her a hand so she can haul herself back onto her feet. She groans from the effort, rolling her shoulders and stretching her neck once she’s fully upright, and then she glances down at the writing beneath her feet, the emblem still drying on the paving, glowing in the firelight.

One gloved knuckle rises to idly nudge her mask back into place, but she tuts when it doesn’t quite sit right. Velvet’s always fussing with it, disliking how it limits her peripheral vision, but Blake’s too proud to ever be seen without it whilst on a task like this. It’s a feeling only exacerbated by the fact that both masks have recently been repainted, all the scuffs and scratches over years of climbing and fighting and running erased and repaired as though they’d never been there to begin with, but now the swirling black lines that decorate the face are accompanied by bright streaks of crimson that cup under the slits for their eyes. For those in the know, it’s a marker of a higher rank, raising them from the lower echelons of the Fang to carry an authority of their own, a symbol of veterancy. They don’t have formal titles like the red-masked lieutenants do, and their role within the Fang requires them to be almost completely anonymous, but it feels good to be acknowledged for all they’ve done in service over the years -- even better to be acknowledged as a pair. Blake doesn’t think half of all they’ve done, all they’ve accomplished, could’ve been done without Velvet at their side.

It makes Blake soften inside to think of it, a tender vulnerability that they cradle from view, and they watch as Velvet snaps the plastic tops back onto her cans of paint, turning them about in her palms before she shrugs off her backpack, tucking them inside. Blake wants to say something -- offer thanks, maybe, for more than just tonight -- but then their ears twitch and swivel, and in the far distance there’s a faint, but steadily increasing, ring of a siren. One of the neighbours must have finally called for emergency services, or perhaps even someone from another district given the visibility of the flames, and Blake slides the bandana back over their mouth, jerking their head away from the sound.

“C’mon, I’m hearing trouble. Better get outta here before some cop takes potshots at us.”

Velvet grins, and she tugs her hood up and over her tawny hare ears -- the left one over a foot long, the other chopped to hardly an inch, an angled, deafened stump -- before she also brings her own bandana over her mouth, adjusting her mask one last time before she stands tall, shoulders squared. She takes a step forward as if to follow their lead, and then pauses, looking back over her shoulder at the towering inferno that swirls overhead like a maelstrom, more of the roof tumbling inwards, wood crackling and heavy beams groaning under unsteady weight.

“Gods,” she breathes, low and quiet enough that Blake almost misses the way her single syllable is drenched with pleasure. “Don’t you just love it, though? When people finally get what they _fucking_ deserve?”

Blake takes a second -- a minute, an hour, an eternity, maybe -- to look Velvet up and down, watching how her hands flex in and out of fists, eager for the punch. They’re both rendered down to little more than lithe shadows when stood before a blaze so intense, and like this, they’re faceless and nameless and unidentifiable save for the masks that indict them as members of the Fang, a pair of arsonists who carry out every act of justice against every verdict of guilt. Names are too mortal a thing, tying them down to the ground with histories too heavy to bear carrying; this way, they’re forces of nature, beyond the scope of humanity’s imagination, guided by fury. They could end the world if they wanted to. They could break it in two and leave nothing behind but debris in the endless expanse of space.

They’re nothing and everything at the same time, just as it should be.

“Yeah,” Blake says, voice muted. “Yeah, I do.”

By the time the fire engines arrive with hoses at the ready and police cars light up the street blue and red, the officers staring up at the house as the rest of the roof collapses and molten glass drips down the windowsills, as the fire climbs through the doorway with claws reaching for flesh to char and bodies to immolate, the rear wing of Councillor Pasque’s home is crumbling into nothingness, all his possessions destroyed beyond rescue, and the two Faunus are long gone, far into the dark and distant embrace of the night.

 

* * *

 

The journalist stares, and stares, and stares, pen stilled over her notes. The clean page is full of scribbles now, though how many talk of Blake’s cadence rather than their story, they’re not sure. She’s not quite able to look them in the eye, though, not yet, and she starts to tap her pen to her notepad in a series of even triplets. One, two, three.

“And that’s the start?” She says, and finally she looks up, bright eyes solid, curious. “That’s the moment?”

Blake nods, leans back. Thinks about maybe having another cigarette, maybe a beer after all the talking they’ve done. Their throat’s a little dry, but they’ve barely even started. “Yeah, that’s the start. Nothing before that really matters to anyone, least of all you.”

She mulls it over like she’s deciding whether to believe them, but Blake knows she will; the night at the Councillor’s house is too innocuous, after all. Anybody else would call bullshit, because surely, to do all they did, the beginning had to have been something bigger than just burning down someone’s house. It had to have been some planet-rumbling moment in history.

Sometimes, though, it’s just the little things that matter most.

“Okay,” the journalist finally says, and she exhales. “Why that night?”

From somewhere in the house comes a shout and a laugh, distant enough for the syllables to become senseless, and Blake grins, crosses their legs under the chair. “Oh, that’s easy. That’s how Cinder Fall noticed us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading the beginning of this AU I've quite literally been working on since 2015! If you enjoyed, drop me some kudos and a comment, and you can find me at faunusrights.tumblr.com for loads more content just like this, as well as an AU masterpost where you can see all the Kewl Art I've made so far.
> 
> Next time: gee i wonder who this 'cinder' chick is i bet she'll b rly composed and not at all a hungover wreck--


	3. Cinder Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO everyone it's been. a While. sry abt that. i swear i'm working my way thru a ton of fics rn and also other projects but WE'LL GET THERE EVENTUALLY.
> 
> anyway, this chapter wasn't in the OG draft but i needed cinder and emerald content to Happen so that's what this chapter is. self-indulgent to the max. but it also has plot so YEAH THERE'S THAT, I GUESS,
> 
> anyway, enjoy this content!!! i made it for me!!!! but also, for you,

It’s eight in the morning, and Cinder Fall has more regrets than she has fingers and toes upon which to count them.

So far, despite the horrifically early hour, she’s had to defend her poor choices about three times as being a _tactical business decision_ that asked her — _required_ her — to drink her way through the rough equivalent of maybe four bottles of champagne whilst also staying up until about two in the morning to do so, and she stands by it! She’ll do it again too, probably, even if it does leave her with a splitting headache and a mouth drier than the Vacuan desert at the height of midsummer, because it’s all for the cause of making sure her business does what it does best; making an awful lot of money very, very quickly.

Alas, despite the sacrifices she’s made, her chances of getting something that looks a little bit like sympathy are in the negatives today, but that’s pretty much par for the course given her choice of company this fine and sunny morning.

“You look like _such_ shit,” Emerald snipes with a grin, her viper fangs flashing in the sunlight as they both make their way down the boardwalk for breakfast. She has the self-assured swagger of someone who’s sober and loving it, whilst Cinder, comparatively, is stumbling every other step and groaning all the while, wondering idly if she can be arrested for vomiting down onto the beaches below, lined with piles of trash that the tide has swept in. “Was it worth it?”

Trying to find the energy to give an answer actually makes Cinder have to stop, leaning heavily against the long railing that lines the boardwalk as she squints against the light. Despite the aid of a dark snapback (reading, in blocky white letters above the brim,  ‘THOT’) and some deeply tinted rounded sunglasses, Cinder still can’t find it in herself to appreciate the general existence of the sun today, and if it wasn’t for the fact that she can’t really handle walking in a straight line for the moment, she’d be sorely tempted to try following after Emerald with her eyes closed. Still, Cinder has a reputation for having a flair for dramatics and it’s not one she’ll lose so easily, so she lowers her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose to give Emerald a _Look —_ one that, probably, would look sort of intimidating if it wasn’t for the snapback and the fact she’s still in her dressing gown and pyjamas, rounding off the whole ensemble with leopard-print platform shoes. Not that anyone can blame her for her fashion choice, given the hangover and the sun and the comfiness of it all, which is almost celebratory in its overt ugliness when you consider—

“Emerald,” Cinder starts, slowly, hoping it comes across with an edge of irritation rather than drunkenness. “I made twenty million Lien last night.”

A handful of years ago, maybe, such an announcement would have made Emerald’s jaw drop to her chest. A few years before _that,_ and Cinder’s would have, too. These days are a bit different, because all Emerald does is purse her lips thoughtfully, giving an approving nod like it’s exactly as expected. “Oh, that’s decent. Guessing that’s not our commission, though?”

For just a second, Cinder tries to calculate what number would be big enough to make twenty million only thirty percent of a grand total, and the fraction of a thought she gives to figuring it out makes her head spin so badly that she gags, waving Emerald away like she’s trying to dissipate a bad smell. “Ugh, no. No, let’s not— don’t even think about talking business to me right now. I’m taking today off.”

Emerald just laughs, loudly enough that Cinder grimaces as she slides her sunglasses back over her eyes, and she heaves herself free of the support of the railing to stagger back over to Emerald’s side. They both know that there’s no such thing as a _day off_ in Cinder’s line of work, not really; there’s always going to be someone calling in a panic because Atlesian Knights are sniffing around in places they shouldn’t, or because one of the mines is suddenly missing a metric ton of Dust that Cinder’s already sold to someone, or because one of her trucks has been searched at a roadblock… such is the continuous bullshit of the Dust industry as a whole, all of which is only exacerbated by the fact that all of this is highly illegal. The only advantage she’s got is that she gets to dodge the ever slowly turning wheels of Vale’s bureaucracy. 

Still, for all the pains in the ass she deals with daily, Cinder knows that it’s well worth the effort. Twenty million might sound like a lot to the uninitiated, but it’s a drop in the ocean for her, and the only reason it’d warranted the party that had been thrown in the first place was because this was a new mine and a new investment she was working with, surrounded by new people who weren’t sure if they trusted her yet. Small successes had to be savoured before the profits really found their footing, like an appetiser before the main dish, and Cinder planned to enjoy every bite.

What she’s trying to say, in short, is that this hangover is a _good_ thing. It’s proof of her tried-and-tested method of working, that limitless ambition — paired with limitless amorality — leads to limitless potential for success. Sure, it means she’s having to stumble along behind Emerald to their favourite cafe whilst feeling like the walking embodiment of death, but enough coffee and bacon should offset her need to vomit and die in an alleyway.

“Y’know, you coulda come with,” Cinder adds as they pass under the shadow of an overhanging building, Emerald weaving between the supports in her ever graceful, leggy sort of way. The words come out slurred and mumbling, and Cinder starts to wonder if she did ever manage to get fully out of the _drunk_ phase. “Was a pretty good time, surprisingly.”

Emerald huffs out a little laugh — more a sarcastically pointed exhale, really — but when she glances over her shoulder she must have the smallest iota of pity for Cinder (or something resembling it, at least) because she waits for her to catch up before bringing an arm across Cinder’s shoulders to guide her in a straight line. She’s so tall that it looks more like a friendly gesture than the aid Cinder actually needs, but that’s because Emerald’s grown to have the type of height that’s carelessly lanky, all found in the length of her arms and legs. Even when wearing platforms that lend her a good two inches of height, Cinder has to crane her neck to make eye contact with Emerald again as the Faunus shrugs loosely.

“Please, you know it’s not my thing,” Emerald says with a wink. “‘Sides, that’s not really why you’re paying me.”

“And here I was, thinking you helped me because we’re _such_ good friends,” Cinder sighs… and then yelps when she trips over some uneven planking, Emerald’s arm tightening around her shoulders as she regains her footing. “See? What if I’d needed you to save me?”

That _does_ make Emerald cackle, bright and loud enough to send a bolt of pure, acidic pain spiking through Cinder’s skull, but Emerald must be enjoying the schadenfreude too much because she makes no move to apologise. “Come on, don’t even try and sell me that. Someone woulda pulled a gun and you’d have made yourself a giant sword or something before they could even cock it.”

Is Emerald wrong? No. This is almost entirely because she’s seen Cinder do exactly that at a completely different party, so the retelling is deeply accurate and is not, tragically, incorrect. Then there’s the fact that Emerald knows that if there’d been any _real_ danger to Cinder’s wellbeing then she would have been informed of her attendance long in advance, doubling as both Cinder’s date and her knife in the dark. It’s become a pretty common arrangement these days, since Cinder’s list of enemies seems to gain names far faster than it loses them, but there’s still chances for her to unwind (if only partially). Slate’s a new associate, who knows of her reputation, and they’re not quite stupid enough to try pulling a fast one on her so quickly. They may not trust her yet — hence why she’s stuck with only a thirty-percent commission until she can further worm her way into their good graces — but they’re well aware that trying to cut out the middleman is a death sentence, even if it goes unsaid.

This is a good thing, because every time someone hasn’t taken Cinder seriously as the threat she is, a lot of people have wound up dead.

Still, Cinder is nothing is not built to complain about everything, ever, and thus she complains. “But what if I needed, like— moral support, or something? Or some disposal?” She tugs at Emerald’s arm, pouting all the while. “You’re my backup!”

“If you needed disposal, then you would’ve called Neo.”

“But she’s terrible moral support and you _know it.”_

Emerald just grins again, all toothy and sharp, and she squeezes Cinder close and straightens out the brim of her snapback, always surprisingly warm with her affection for the right people. “You don’t have any morals to support. Neo’s great for you.”

Cinder opens her mouth, makes to argue back... and then accepts the point with a roll of her eyes. Technically speaking, none of it even really matters; everyone has their part to play in making this venture work, and for Cinder, it’s mostly doing all the surface-level stuff, given she’s the face of the business. Deal-making, party-crashing, all sprinkled with ample amounts of her own wetwork. Every now and again Cinder feels like it’s weird to have all these tasks _delegated away,_ but she’s learning to deal with it. Sometimes, a thing just isn’t yours to do any more.

Cinder’s job right now, though, is struggling through the scant few hours since the end of the party to now, and she’s hungry and still kind of drunk and the sunlight can get choked, and Emerald guides her down to a cafe on the boardwalk that they frequent so often that Cinder’s honestly quite surprised that the place hasn’t yet been jumped by Hunters looking to catch Atlas’s public enemy number one. Like, seriously, she’s not exactly the most discreet person to walk the face of Remnant; she’s wearing leopard-print platforms, for the love of the Maidens. That said, Cinder’s also not entirely sure what she’d do without this place in her life, with its quaint little shopfront and modern furnishings and endless plates of bacon, and so when they arrive and step inside out of the glare of the sunlight, the interior dimmed and quiet and without a single Hunter or cop to be seen, Cinder’s thankful.

“What are you in the mood for?” Emerald asks absently, driving them both towards a little corner booth at the far end of the cafe. It’s out of the way and avoids the light streaming in through the wide bay windows on the opposite wall, and it’s also in full view of a mounted TV where Cinder — if she can focus on it — can watch the news headlines, seeing how the world is going from _worse_ to _awful_ in new and interesting ways. It makes her feel like her day-to-day life has a very low bar to overcome. “I’m in the mood for an omelette.”

That said, it feels more like she’s ran full-sprint head-first into said bar, her skull pounding away. “Ugh, I’m just… just gonna get my usual. Can’t go wrong with black coffee and bacon.”

“Breakfast of champions,” Emerald adds, dryly as ever, and Cinder can’t stop a snort of amusement. Not that she feels like much of a champion of anything once she’s sat down, though, Emerald making sure she’s propped up against the plush faux leather before heading to the bar to order their food. She hadn’t actually planned on being this much of a wreck of a person this morning, because there’s shit to get done that she’s been putting off for a while now, like sorting out new truck routes with Roman or dealing with a competitor causing trouble on her radar. But instead of even thinking about it, Cinder just plants her face against the table, shuts her eyes, and just listens.

It’s not too busy in the cafe, thankfully, because it’s a Sunday morning and nobody should be awake this early on a _Sunday,_ and most people who are here are working quietly, tapping on the keypads of computers or sending Scroll messages back and forth or eating and drinking alone, the tip-tap of silverware against porcelain muted against the wood-lined walls, the low and sloping ceiling, the decorative bookshelves stacked with tomes. In fact, the loudest thing around Cinder is the TV itself, which pulses with a beat as the hour ticks over, Lisa Lavender appearing on screen with papers scattered over her desk and her voice as evenly-cadenced as ever.

“Good morning, Vale. I’m Lisa Lavender, here with your eight o’clock news headlines. Our main story today: the home of Councillor Pasque, fifth seat of the Valian Council, saw emergency services called in the early hours of this morning after an apparent case of arson—”

Ears pricking, Cinder blearily glances upwards just in time to see a three-storey house come onto the screen, intense flames of orange and white crawling up towards the stars even as fire engines blast arcs of water onto the blaze, windows melted to empty sills as police officers cordon off the area, talking amongst themselves. “Slogans and symbols were found surrounding the scene, similar to a string of similar arson cases by pro-Faunus groups attacking the homes and properties of several critics of the White Fang, of which Councillor Pasque had derided last week during a public statement—”

On the screen, the camera wobbles with motion as it zooms in on the paintwork across the tarmac. It’s no artwork — quickly scrawled in the heat of the moment, paint having dripped wildly from the offending spray can — but the messages are clear enough. _‘HUMAN RICHES LEAVE US STARVING’,_ says one. _‘FAUNUS LABOUR IS STOLEN LABOUR’._ That’s all Cinder manages to read before a police officer shoves the camera away, shouting and pointing them away from the inferno. “Councillor Pasque has yet to be reached for a comment, though firefighters on the scene did confirm that this case of arson matches the method of previous incidents, including the use of Dust bombs across the property, and that it was undertaken by experienced assailants who have committed an incalculable amount of damage in a short amount of time. We’ll have more on this story as it develops.”

Right as it cuts to another headline, Emerald returns with her usual saunter, sliding into the seat opposite as she plonks down a little number card for the waitress. She’s about to say something, mouth open as she holds up a hand ready for some wild gesticulation, but when her eyes settle on Cinder’s quiet focus on the TV she looks over her shoulder, following her gaze only to see a piece on rising export prices. “Anything new?”

Cinder rests her chin on the heel of her palm, watching as the case appears again on the scrolling feed at the bottom: COUNCILLOR’S HOME BURNT IN SUSPECTED WHITE FANG ARSON. “Nothing good, but there is something interesting. The Fang’s burnt down Councillor Pasque’s house.”

Emerald turns back around, brow raised. Then, she snorts, chuckling under her breath as she slumps down in the booth, her long legs knocking against Cinder’s under the table. “Like that’s a surprise to _anyone._ You sling shit at the Fang, and they’ll sling it right back.” She reaches over to pluck a drinks menu off the stand, toying with a frayed corner as she speaks. “The moment he went up on that podium and started sayin’ shit, we knew his days were numbered in one way or another.”

She stops, then, and lowers her voice so that it doesn’t carry too far, crimson eyes glancing up to Cinder from beneath long lashes. “Was kinda hopin’ they would, too. He’s a walking talking trashbag by anyone’s standards.”

“Same,” Cinder murmurs, reaching into the pocket of her dressing gown to find her Scroll. “I’ve never disagreed about their targets or whatever, but I do wonder when someone will figure out that even mentioning the Fang is gonna cause trouble. Seems most people can’t resist the dig.”

Emerald grins, putting the menu back into its slot. “Implying humans have _ever_ known when to shut up?”

It’s a good point, well made, so Cinder just focuses on opening up her Scroll and flipping over to the Vale News Network application instead, hunting down the article about the arson. Well, actually, _hunting_ it down is a pretty strong word for it when it’s front-and-center of the homepage, taking up almost the entirety of the screen with big, bold capitals and a photo of the fire burning at its peak, bright enough to rival a piece of the sun. Cinder taps it, and the article she’s led to is perhaps a little on the short side, but it’s clearly rapidly lengthening with every hour.

_COUNCILLOR’S HOME TORCHED IN ARSON CASE — WHITE FANG INVOLVEMENT SUSPECTED_

_The home of Sable Pasque, fifth seat of the Valian Council and Secretary of Work, was set aflame in another suspected White Fang arson and bombing; the twenty-first since the beginning of the year. The blaze follows Councillor Pasque’s public comments on the Fang’s recent streak of terror in Vale, using colourful terms such as ‘menaces to society’ and ‘parasites that require urgent purging’ on live television. According to chief firefighter Captain Bronze, this arson is ‘one of the most calculated in recent months’, and may see up to twenty-five million Lien in damages — including the loss of rare artwork and irreplaceable valuables. So far, no arrests have been made, though the police have assured local residents that they are conducting a wide-reaching, full-scale search effort for the assailants across the residential districts and beyond._

“Think it puts us in danger?” Emerald pipes up as Cinder reads, nails picking idly at the loose vinyl around the edge of the table. “Like, if they actually caught one of the Fang and they squealed on where they got that Dust from?”

“There’s good reason I’m the one dealing with them,” Cinder says, squinting against the brightness of the screen as she continues further down the article. “They know nothing about us save for the fact that I make the deals, and I’m keeping it that way for as long as I’m able.”

That’s true of all her dealings, to be honest, though some know more of her crew than others. She’s learnt to be discerning as she’s gotten older, able to tell who’ll be loyal out of fear and who’ll say the wrong things in the right ears if given half the chance, and it’s helped to keep them all alive. No real room for mistakes them everyone who’ll capitalise on them have more guns, more people, and more of a grudge than you do.

It’s all made a little bit easier by the sheer chaos of the world. When you’re sitting in a nice cafe and waiting on your breakfast as Cinder is, you can forget that the world outside is up to its eyeballs in bullshit, and it’s all mirrored in what plays on the TV, in the other headlines Cinder scrolls past. _Protestors Shot In Atlas. Grimm Numbers Triple In Vale. Record Number Of Homeless In Vacuo. Mistrali Gangs Increase Death Toll._ To others, it’s a stark reminder, and to Cinder, it’s a welcome distraction for her business. Once, Atlesian Knights used to haunt her every move, sniffing around her storage facilities and stalking the mines with guns at the ready, but now she sees them hardly once a month. Bigger fish to fry, she supposes, even if the bounty on her head boasts an impressive amount of zeroes.

Emerald maybe wants to add something to that — she’s certainly mulling it over, if the way her eyes drop is any indication — but then their waitress comes over with a tray of drinks, and the moment is lost in favour of steaming black coffee and some type of bright orange smoothie, dripping with condensation.

“Black coffee and a mango smoothie?” The waitress asks, her smile making the vivid parrot feathers across her cheekbones shimmer, bright with familiarity. They’re regulars often enough that they know the names of almost all the staff here, and Cerise is no exception; her morning shift means they almost always crash into each other for breakfast.

“Thought we’d be past asking by now,” Emerald teases, the curve of her smile verging on a flirt, and Cerise just rolls her eyes as she gives Emerald her cup.

“Hey, maybe you two swapped brains overnight,” she replies, sliding Cinder’s coffee in front of her. “Can’t presume anything these days, right?”

Emerald just scoffs. “Please. I _like_ having a braincell.”

It’s true — though why Emerald felt the need to say it, Cinder isn’t too sure — but Cerise still looks to Cinder as if for confirmation anyway, only to stop dead in her tracks when she takes in the snapback and the sunglasses and the dressing gown and the fact that Cinder probably seems half-dead to the world. “Oh, yeesh. Lookin’ rough there.”

Emerald cackles, but Cinder just lowers her sunglasses, giving Cerise her most winning smile and a wink. “Thanks, babe. You’re looking drop-dead gorgeous today too.”

This time Cerise laughs too, and even though it’s still a little too loud for Cinder’s ears to bear, she’s not gonna complain about it like some sort of asshole; people treat Faunus waitresses like punching bags on the best of days and, whilst Cinder is unapologetically a _bad person,_ she’s not _evil._ So, she just gives another wobbly grin in response before taking a dangerously large gulp of scalding coffee, feeling it burn right down to her stomach.

“Yeah, she made bad choices last night,” Emerald says as she swirls her straw about her plastic cup, and she’s still unbearably smug about this whole thing. “Which is, like, what she does every night, so.”

Cinder groans, hoping the coffee kicks in sooner rather than later. Even when she’s sober and hydrated and actually awake enough to keep her eyes open, she rarely has the energy to deal with Emerald’s pointed sass, which is made all the worse when she’s quite literally none of the above. “Em, shut up before I fire you.”

Emerald just smirks, her head tilt of acquiescence undercut by the cheeky quirk at the corner of her mouth, and she holds up her drink like some sort of toast. “As my boss commands. Sorry, Ceri; maybe you’ll get the juicy details later.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” Cerise’s eyes glitter, bright and falsely innocent. “Food’ll be on its way out soon. Gimme a shout if you need anything, yeah?”

Emerald nods and Cinder lets her head thunk back onto the table in lieu of a verbal response, hearing Cerise giggle at the sight before her footsteps carry her back into the rest of the cafe without another word. A commiserating pat on the top of her snapback comes paired with a noisy slurp from Emerald, and even as Cinder wills for the quick onslaught of death, there’s nothing but a faint nausea, a pounding headache, and the smell of sharp coffee that awaits her.

Well, all that, and also the distinct jabbing sensation that often accompanies Emerald’s gaze, prodding its way across the top of her scalp. How she does it, Cinder isn’t sure — maybe it’s something to do with her Semblance, because Cinder’s sure she’s not just imagining it — but it’s enough to make her raise her head back up with a groan, catching Emerald’s steady stare from where she’s settled back against the seat of her booth, thoughtful.

After a few seconds, Cinder lowers her sunglasses again, squinting against the bright light of an entirely too perky morning sun. “You wanna say something, say it. I’m not in the mood to puzzle shit out.”

Still, Emerald doesn’t say anything, instead peering back over her shoulder to take another look at the TV screen and various headlines that scroll across the width of the monitor. They’ve moved on past the arson, instead talking some shit about the Schnee Dust Company’s tumbling profit margins, and Emerald’s jaw sets before she turns back to Cinder. “You really think we’ll be fine if they got caught?”

Cinder scoffs before she can help herself, for a variety of reasons. She shouldn’t have to explain what they both already know; that if these arsonists manage to fuck up so badly as to get caught, there won’t be much of an interrogation before they’re both summarily shot dead. Still, Cinder heavily doubts that’ll ever come to pass. “Please. They haven’t survived this long by fluke.”

It’s not that Cinder’s been keeping tabs — or rather, not exactly; what the Fang chooses to do with the Dust she sells them is absolutely none of her business, so long as the agreements they have remain cordial, but she’s noticed that if she idly takes note of them often enough, some of these arson cases have a certain flair that others seem to lack. Many of the Fang’s arsonists are happy enough to start a blaze and leave it there, but this one — or _these_ _ones,_ given this seems more like a team-based effort — like to back up their flames with Dust-packed bombs, ensuring that the damages tear right through the foundations, leaving nothing left to be scavenged. They don’t even seem to steal the valuables, according to older reports, so entirely focused on bringing their targets down to rubble and ash that everything else is an afterthought.

Cinder respects that modus operandi. They know what they want to do, know how to do it, and stick to the plan. It’s an admirable dedication.

But their real trick, Cinder thinks, is their ability to disappear. Whoever they are, there’s never even been a composite made of their faces, and if there’s ever been any CCTV footage caught of them, it’s clearly not enough to put out into the public eye. Much like all the other arsons that match their style, there won’t be any arrests made in connection, and Cinder’s confident of it. That’s why she’s not going to stress out about potential trails to her front door, or about the Fang leaking their sources. As a general rule, their agents are always pretty good about dying before giving anything up, anyway.

“Besides,” Cinder adds with a murmur, taking a sip of her coffee and letting the bitterness jolt her out of her hazy thoughts. “I gotta go to their compound in person tomorrow to renegotiate some logistics, so I can air out your concerns then, I guess.”

“Logistics?” Emerald’s brow raises. “Isn’t that Roman’s job?”

If she had the energy, ability, and more than a few painkillers, Cinder would have laughed. “Something something the _big coward_ doesn’t wanna go in alone. Besides, you know what he’s like; prefers to sit in the fucking warehouse and pretend like he actually does anything.”

The table jiggles under Cinder’s elbows, and she can feel Emerald bouncing her knee, frowning all the while. “Shouldn’t I come with, then? They’d probably prefer having someone who’s visibly Faunus with you in their little rabbit warren.”

It probably wouldn’t make a difference, but Cinder appreciates the thought. Still, she shakes her head, taking another gulp of coffee. “Nah, you’re good. Unless they’ve really let all that smoke get to their heads, they’d know better than to cross me anyway.” She grins around the edge of the mug, sobriety gradually clawing her hangover back into line. “So long as we’ve got a deal, they can put up with me gallivanting wherever the fuck I want, and they need me way more than I need them.”

Emerald nods her head in agreement, slow and even like she’s still mulling it over, and from the corner of her eye, Cinder can see Cerise approaching with their food in hand. Still, there’s just enough time for Emerald to murmur under her breath between sips of her drink, pointedly looking down to the table. “Well, I mean, that’s unless you’re in the market for arsonists, ‘cause I think they might just have the best around.”

Cinder snorts at that, ready to concede the point when, for no real reason, she gets an idea. It arrives in her head right as Cerise lays their plates down in front of them, potent enough to make her eyes go wide and her thanks to get trapped in her throat, and it glues itself to the inside of her skull like a wad of gum, or the stink of petroleum, or the colourful paint from an aerosol can. Even as they start eating, Emerald giving her a few concerned looks when it takes Cinder a moment to catch up, it doesn’t change, doesn’t shift, sitting heavy and sinking in with all the makings of a rapidly forming plan.

It’s a terrible idea to get, and it’s why it’s exactly her type of idea to follow through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading y'all!!! if u enjoyed this, toss me sum kudos and a comment, maybe! alternately, you can check me out at faunusrights.tumblr.com where i post art! and writing snippets! and shitpost a lot!!! it's pretty hype B)
> 
> see u next time, when velvet and blake get Into A Fight, and we meet some familiar faces...


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